


Tragedy

by looneylizzie



Category: Original Work
Genre: Original work - Freeform, September 11 Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 16:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12062703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/looneylizzie/pseuds/looneylizzie
Summary: As you watch, you come to understand the meaning of the word your teacher used to describethatday.Tragedy.





	Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. So, this story is pretty personal to me -- I actually wrote it last winter, but decided to wait to post it until, well, today.
> 
> Anyway, this story is for all of those who died on 9/11, and for all of those who were in NYC that day.

“Oh! You beat me!” you exclaimed, clapping as she placed the last wooden block on the top of her tower. “Good job!” You hold up a hand for a high-five.

Her hand claps against yours, and you smile as she looks it over with pride. Next, she’s analyzing your tower and giving you a look. “It’s okay. You tried.”

You laugh loudly at that, and she breaks into a sweet giggle that you so love to hear.

“Vrrrrrshhhhh! Watch out! Plane coming!” he bellows as he runs into the room, making a beeline for the towers, plastic airplane clutched in his hand.

As she starts to scream and grabs for your arm, time slows down, and suddenly the towers are concrete and the plane is metal. You’re in another time, another place, and as the plane crashes into the tower, you feel your blood run cold, and a rush of terror flies down your spine, just like it did _then_.

The TV is silent, though the screen is still projecting such horrible images. You reach behind you for your mother’s hands, desperate to feel something, _anything_ , that will remind you that you’re at home and not standing at the foot of the buildings. Her arms wrap around your entire body, her fingers squeezing yours tightly.

A moment later the image changes, and the crash happens all over again, but from a different angle. Or perhaps it’s the second tower, you can’t tell with all the words speeding by at the bottom of the screen, too fast for you to read - you’re not as good as the grown ups yet. All you can see is the crash, then the burning building as smoke rises into the air, a black streak in a perfectly clear blue sky.

The image changes a third time, and you feel yourself go numb as you watch them fall again. It doesn’t fall in the way you expect, the way you imagined when you overheard your teachers whispering about it in school, like a bowling pin hit with a bowling ball. Or like a lego tower falls -- breaking into pieces as it flies across the room.

No, it collapses as it falls, as though being stepped on by a giant on his way down the beanstalk. Or the way you’d step on a cockroach.

Your father turns the TV off, but you simply stare at it, your distorted reflection visible in the now-darkened screen. Words are being spoken around you, but you don't pay attention. You’re still trying to understand, still so confused.

 _Why?_ Why would someone knock down such tall, beautiful buildings? It didn't make any sense.

You go to your room and look out the window. It’s still early, still supposed to be light outside, but the sky is dark with smoke and the whole world seems a bit grayer.

It’s a few days before you go outside again, and immediately you notice the layer of dust that seems to cover everything. 

_Dust from the towers_ , you think, dust that traveled all the way to your neighborhood, at least 150 blocks away.

It reminds you of the men sitting on the bus on the way home -- the men you’d wrinkled your nose at and loudly asked your mother why they were covered in so much dust -- staring off into space, with looks on their faces that you’d quickly come to understand as what they meant by ‘haunted’.

Weeks later, you ride the subway to school and see those haunted looks echoed on many of the riders. The car is unusually quiet -- there isn't any music straining through headphones turned up too loud, and conversations take place in whispers, blending in with the thumping of the train. Something hangs in air, balanced precariously over the passengers, and you get the feeling that if it were to break, everyone else would too.

One young woman starts sobbing openly, and almost immediately another older woman hands her a tissue with a grim expression, while the elderly man dressed in a police uniform sitting next to her wraps his arm around her shoulders, quietly whispering words of comfort in her ear.

You look out the train window and watch each stop go by, uncomfortable by the tense atmosphere. The further downtown you get, the more pieces of paper cover each station’s walls, fluttering as one in the wind created by the train. Each piece of paper is different - different colors, different words in various styles and sizes, different pictures, some typed and printed, some handwritten -- each vying for your attention as you pass.

When you get off at your stop, you squirm out from your mother’s tighter than usual grip and rush forward to get a closer look at the papers.

 ** _‘MISSING’_** or **_‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON?’_** is printed at the top of every page, each accompanied with a smiling picture. Together the papers teeter on the edge of hope and despair, overwhelming you with the unfamiliar emotions.

Your mother’s hand grips yours again, her words chastising you, but her tone wavers slightly, as though she’s more scared than angry.

Which only scares you even more.

Both of your parents have tried to hide it, in fact, all grownups have tried to hide it; the fear that’s settled over everyone since _that_ day.

But you don't understand it. Why are they all scared? Why are they all sad? Why are those flyers everywhere? Why are all those people _missing_?

Later, in school, your teacher asks the class how much you know about the towers. Some know more than others, but you’re all just as confused and scared, like all the grownups. 

Your teacher explains as best she can. She calls it a tragedy, but you still don't understand. Buildings can be rebuilt, can't they?

A classmate asks about another classmate, the only one who’s absent, and something twists in your stomach.

You were the last of the class to see him -- you’d sat together, waiting for your parents to come get you that day, hours after school ended. You’d been the last two left waiting, until you were picked up. Then he was the last, left surrounded by grown ups who were trying, and failing to hide that something was very _wrong_.

It was their fear that’d scared you both the most.

You can remember his face as he waved goodbye to you; his pale cheeks, tight smile, and eyes on the brink of tears. You could see his hope fading with every step you took away from him, and there was nothing you could do.

He wasn't coming back, your teacher said, because his parents had worked in or near the towers, and hadn't come to pick him up. 

Because they were gone.

It was the way she said ‘gone’ that made it click.

The air in your lungs escape through your nose like air from an overfilled balloon. The ache that squeezed at your chest hurt more than you’d ever imagined possible. Your stomach flipped in time with your heartbeat, and you were sure you were going to throw up, pass out, or both.

Suddenly, your questions all had answers, and you understood the fear, the sadness, the _horror_ that hung over your city. Your home.

The buildings weren't just buildings. 

The faces on the subway walls weren't just faces.

They were people. Real people. Moms and Dads and brothers and sisters.

And they were all there when those buildings fell. They were _inside_ the buildings.

Now, they were gone. No, dead. That’s what your teacher meant.

Gone.

Dead.

 _Dead_ was so much worse than _gone_.

Images flash in your mind’s eye as you stand, ignoring your teacher’s protests as you run as fast as your little legs could carry you.

The towers on your TV screen... smoking, burning, falling.

The layer of dust coating every surface - the parked cars, the street signs, even the trees.

Those haunted expressions on the dust-covered men’s faces on the bus, then echoed a thousand times on each face you’d seen since.

The lady sobbing on the train and the man whispering in her ear.

The flyers, taped along the station walls, hundreds, no, _thousands_ of them, each carrying the face of someone who was needed at home.

How many, you wondered, how many were lost? There had been so many faces… too many for your child-sized mind to comprehend.

But there was enough. Enough for you to understand now, and enough for your heart to feel as though it would rip in half. And keep ripping until it fell into a pile of tiny pieces on the dusty floor.

You finally stop outside an open classroom door, out of breath and tears stinging your cheeks. You peer inside the dark room and see the TV on, a teacher watching the footage of the towers falling, the news playing it again and again.

As you watch, you come to understand the meaning of the word your teacher used to describe _that_ day.

 _Tragedy_.

\----------------------------------------

You snap out of your memories and see the blocks scattered on the floor while the airplane lay forgotten where the towers once stood.

The children are screaming at each other, tears pouring down her cheeks and a bright red block-sized spot visible on his forehead.

Without a word, you reach out and grab them both, pulling them into your lap and hugging them as hard as you can.

The screaming stops, but they both squirm in your grip, complaining that it’s too tight.

It takes a minute for you to calm down enough to finally let go, and when you do, you reach up to wipe your eyes as they climb out of your lap. Upon seeing your face, she puts a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” she asks, genuine worry evident in her voice.

You sniffle a little, but manage to smile. “Nothing. I was just remembering why some bad things are called tragedies.”

“What’s a tra-jec-tees?” he asks, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar syllables.

You pull them into another hug, this one gentler, and kiss both of their foreheads. 

“Something I hope you never have to truly understand.”


End file.
